The world is drowned in blue, as if deep in the ocean, where only the longest wavelengths of light will reach. The sky is a flat blue-grey, a stormy ceiling without even the smallest crack to let the glory of the rising sun come through. The branches of the trees wave in the wind, as if the wild hedge were an unruly and misshapen kelp forest. The stone of the back porch is mottled as though coral and algea were slowly growing on its surface.
The area underneath the bushes, revealed more and more by the falling of leaves, is dark and impenitrable to the eye, a cavern for a Moray Eel's eerie smile to peer from. If this were a coral reef, it would be a dead one. There are no shoals of fish here, no brightly colored shrimp, no many-fingered hands of the waving anemones.
It has begun to rain, each droplet darkening the stone of the porch. How long must it do so before the world is truly drowned in blue?
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